


We Sang and Danced and Flung Our Hearts Into the Wind

by whisperedstory



Series: This Life That We've Created [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Endearments, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Gore, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, but it gets very fluffy quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: In the aftermath of what is probably the worst night of Jaskier's life, things start to change between him and Geralt and grow into something much deeper. There's nothing that could make Jaskier want to leave Geralt's side—and Geralt finally seems to be ready to accept that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: This Life That We've Created [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737058
Comments: 104
Kudos: 1323





	We Sang and Danced and Flung Our Hearts Into the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> betaed by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift) <3

There's something in the air, something heavy and oppressing, and it makes the hairs on Jaskier's arms stand up as Geralt guides Roach down the narrow street towards the tavern.

It's a small village, barely more than a cluster of a dozen houses, but close enough to one of the main trade routes that the local tavern offers a few rooms for travelers.

Both he and Geralt are soaked to the bone, wind whipping around them furiously and blowing the rain into their faces, each drop feeling like a little pinprick on Jaskier's cold cheeks. There's thunder so heavy the ground shakes and lightning cracks through the pitch black sky. 

Geralt pulled him up onto Roach a while ago, when the ground became too muddy and slippery for him to keep walking, and poor Roach is having a hard time, too. The only thing that has been keeping Jaskier from shivering violently is the warm press of Geralt's body against his. And then through the darkness the blurry, flickering lights of the houses had come into view. Mere minutes ago, it felt like salvation.

Now Jaskier is not so sure.

"What—" he starts.

"Magic," Geralt mutters. He sounds tense, feels tense too, and the worry in Jaskier's belly gets heavier. 

They can't go on. Not in this weather. But oh, how he wants to. He feels it ripple through him, a dark, cloying power, and it hurts to breathe.

"Geralt," he says. It sounds like a plea. A plea for what exactly, Jaskier isn't sure—perhaps to keep moving, even though he knows it's not an option in this kind of weather. Or perhaps a plea for Geralt to keep him safe, keep him close.

"Just for a few hours. Just until the storm clears," Geralt replies. He doesn't want to be here either. 

Jaskier nods even as something uneasy and foreboding settles heavily in his gut.

*

Jaskier sticks close to Geralt's side as they enter the tavern. There are only a handful of tables, but they're all occupied.

Most heads turn, watching them with the same mixture of curiosity and suspicion—of strangers in general and witchers in particular—that they're met with in most towns. To Jaskier's surprise nobody looks scared, though, like they can't feel the stifling blanket of magic, the stench of something dark.

They seem fine. Drinking and eating and talking, like it's a normal evening.

Geralt leads them to the bar without so much as a glance at anyone. "A room," he says, hand settling on the pouch at his hip that's heavy with coin.

The barman looks at him warily, then his gaze slides over to Jaskier, down to the cased lute in his hands. "You're a bard?" he asks, nodding at Jaskier's instrument. "I'll give you some free food and ale if you play."

"He's not playing tonight," Geralt says before Jaskier can reply, dropping a few coins down onto the counter. "Just a room."

The barman hesitates for a second, and Jaskier almost hopes they'll be turned away. The storm might kill them, but so might whatever is going on here. 

But then the barman nods and takes the coins. "Upstairs, last door down the hallway on the left."

"Thank you," Geralt says and gives Jaskier a little shove towards the dark staircase, and Jaskier goes without complaint. He's rarely this quiet, but even breathing has been taking a considerable effort since they stepped foot into the village.

Their room is simple, just a bed and a small table with a chair and a fireplace, logs of woods stacked next to it. 

"What's going on here, Geralt?" Jaskier asks the moment the door shuts behind them. He rubs at his chest, trying to dispel the tightness there. "It's like they don't know something's wrong. Something _is_ very wrong, isn't it?" 

Geralt hums, dropping their things. 

"Maybe we should leave," Jaskier adds, shifting uncomfortably, his lute still clutched in his hands. Now that they're inside, he's starting to shiver in his wet clothes.

Geralt turns to him. "We won't get far in this weather and we need shelter," he says and steps in front of Jaskier. One hand settles on the curve of Jaskier's shoulder, heavy and reassuring, and he cups Jaskier's face with the other, drags his thumb over wet skin. "I'll go and try to figure out what's going on. You stay here."

Jaskier shakes his head before Geralt is even finished and this time, when he breathes, it's not whatever spell is hanging over the town that makes it difficult. "No. Please, stay," he murmurs in a moment of weakness. 

Jaskier has become good at not worrying about Geralt, at least most of the time, because he knows what Geralt is capable of and trusts him to come back to him. But they don't know what is happening here and the thought of separating, of being without Geralt even for a little while, seems almost unbearable in that instant. 

Geralt's gaze softens and he leans in, presses his forehead to Jaskier's. The physical affection, while not completely uncommon these days, does little to ease Jaskier's mind. 

"I won't be long," Geralt promises. "Don't leave the room and don't let anyone in either."

"Geralt," Jaskier starts, but Geralt silences him with a quick kiss.

"I won't be long," Geralt repeats, and Jaskier's shoulders slump. He nods.

*

The wind is making the room's sole window rattle in its frame and the rain is coming down so heavily, it's deafening. Jaskier sees nothing but darkness when he peers outside. 

He busies himself with lighting a fire and laying their things out to dry, and then sits on the bed, stripped down to his underclothes and a shirt that, while not dry, at least isn't dripping wet. 

He plucks at his lute for a while, but for once his heart isn't in it. 

It feels like Geralt is gone forever, but Jaskier knows it can't have been much more than an hour before there's a harsh knock on the door. Jaskier doesn't need to ask who it is, knows it just by the sound of knuckles rapping against the wood twice, is as familiar with it as the sound of Geralt's grunts and the slow beating of his heart.

Geralt's face is grim, jaw clenched, and once he's inside the room, he locks the door. 

"I guess that means we're staying, huh?" 

"We can't leave," Geralt says. " _Fuck_."

"How bad is it?" Jaskier asks quietly, a slight tremble in his voice. His chest hurts, like something is pressing down on him. 

"There's a curse on the town," Geralt grunts, tugging at the buckles of his armor. "There is— _was_ sorceress living at the edge of town; she cursed everyone here. And it's potent magic. I've rarely felt anything like this."

"Can't it be lifted then, the curse?" Jaskier asks, but doesn't feel much hope. He sits down on the bed.

Geralt shakes his head. "Even if she could have, the spell took too much out of her. She was already dying by the time I got there," he says. "Whatever is going to happen, it's happening tonight." 

"Geralt, we really should leave then," Jaskier pleads. "I know the storm is bad, but surely it's better than this? I don't feel good. I can barely breathe." 

Geralt drops his armor and then crosses over to Jaskier, kneeling down in front of him. He rests a hand on his thigh; unlike Jaskier he's still soaking wet, but his touch is warm. 

"No human soul is getting out of this town," Geralt says, his tone laden with something. It sounds like a threat, dark and foreboding, and Jaskier guesses those are the sorceress's words. "She made sure of that."

Jaskier rubs at his chest to ease the tightness there. "So what do we do?"

"We just have to make it to morning. We weren't here when she uttered the curse; it shouldn't affect us."

"Shouldn't? Or won't?" Jaskier asks. It comes out weak. There isn't enough air in the room; Jaskier's lungs are burning.

Geralt holds his gaze for a moment and squeezes his thigh. "Slow and steady breaths, okay? You'll be fine." 

Jaskier nods shakily.

*

They curl up on the bed together. There's a candle on the nightstand, and despite the closed window and door, the flame flickers, almost dying out before regaining its strength several times.

Geralt holds him close, lets Jaskier burrow against him. Jaskier presses his face against the warm skin at the base of Geralt's throat and lets Geralt's familiar scent fill his lungs instead of the stench of magic: earthy and warm, dirt and sweat and _witcher_. Geralt smells, _feels_ , like comfort and safety, no matter if it's in quiet moments like this or when Geralt is snarling and seething. It's all the same to Jaskier.

He feels Geralt's nose in his hair, Geralt's hand pressing against his back, holding him against him.

"Try to sleep," Geralt says, the words coming out like an order. 

Jaskier snorts, the sound muffled by Geralt's chest. "I don't think I can."

"I can help," Geralt offers and Jaskier hears the hesitation in his voice. 

He's seen Geralt use Axii on people more than once, but Geralt has never used it on him, and he appreciates that Geralt asks. He gives himself a moment to think about it; it would freak him out if it was anyone but Geralt using magic on him, but sleep sounds like sweet mercy right now. His heart is beating too fast in his chest and he knows Geralt must be able to smell his fear. 

He tilts his head up, kisses Geralt's throat. "Will you sleep, too?"

Geralt exhales loudly, shakes his head. "I'll stay up."

Watch over him, keep them safe, is what he means. Jaskier pulls away so he can meet Geralt's eyes and nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "Wake me up if… if something happens."

He rests his hand on Geralt's waist, smiles at him weakly and then closes his eyes. He doesn't feel anything as Geralt draws the sign, his mind already feeling foggy from the magic, and then Geralt kisses his forehead. "Sleep," he murmurs, and Jaskier feels his limbs grow heavy, his mind drifting.

He wakes up groggy and confused, held tightly into place. He struggles for a second, before his head clears and he realizes it's Geralt. Geralt, who is curled around him and has his hands covering both of Jaskier's ears. 

Jaskier can hear the screams anyway. 

He draws in a breath and it comes back out as a whimper. He feels Geralt's lips against his forehead, moving as he talks; he can't hear the words, just the low, rough cadence of his voice mingling with the muffled sounds of cries and screams coming from downstairs, from outside.

"Geralt," he says, his breath hitching, and he presses closer, seeks comfort in the warmth of Geralt's body. He curls his arms tightly around Geralt, squeezes his eyes shut, and sucks in one painful breath after another. Waits and prays nothing will happen to them; but if it does, at least they're together. At least he'll die with Geralt.

Jaskier might make foolish choices sometimes, but he isn't naive. He always knew following a witcher might not end well for him and it's a risk he willingly took. He doesn't want to die like this, of course he doesn't, but he always knew it was a possibility. One look at Geralt and he had known it'd be worth it. And now, here, that still holds true.

Geralt uncovers his ears, one hand settling warmly on his neck. Only then does Jaskier notice that the cries have ceased. The wind and rain must have stopped too and the sudden silence, when it registers, is unearthly. 

"Is it over?" Jaskier asks past the lump in his throat. He blinks, his eyelashes sticky with tears. He already knows the answer—his chest still feels too tight, but breathing feels easier, the air tasting clean.

"Hmm."

"Do you think," Jaksier starts, but doesn't finish the thought, knows Geralt will get it anyway. Those cries were of people who were terrified and tortured, of people dying, and now there's nothing. No shouting, no sobbing, no cries of pain and grief and fear. It's an eerie stillness that he knows means there's nobody left.

Geralt strokes a hand down his back. He makes no move to draw away, keeps Jaskier close even though the danger seems to have passed. "We'll leave as soon as the sun rises," he says and Jaskier can only nod. 

*

The metallic scent of spilled blood fills Jaskier's nostrils as they make their way downstairs. Geralt is in front of him, blocking his view, but when they reach the bottom of the stairs Jaskier steps in something wet and sticky. His stomach turns before he even looks down, sees the crimson puddle there. 

"Jaskier," Geralt prompts, voice firm but not harsh. 

Jaskier swallows and looks up, finds Geralt turned his way. 

"Don't look," Geralt says. "Just look at me. Nowhere else."

Jaskier takes a breath, instantly regretting it when the scent hits home once again, and nods. He keeps his eyes fixed on Geralt's back as he follows him out of the tavern. He sees enough out of the corner of his eye, feels the blood and pieces of flesh under the soles of his boots, and he can't help but remember the sounds of screaming. 

Jaskier has seen his fair share of violence. He's never experienced a carnage like this—an entire village, small as it might have been, slaughtered.

He feels relieved when the door to the tavern falls shut behind them, but then freezes when Geralt heads for the back of the building where the stables are. 

"Roach," he gasps, and Geralt turns to look back at him.

"She's fine. Come on," he says and keeps walking without stopping. 

Jaskier isn't sure if Geralt really knows or is guessing—hoping—but he hurries after him anyway. 

Roach is indeed fine, in that she's alive, but she's restless, dancing around and neighing as they approach. 

There's a body on the ground near her, ripped open, the straw around it soaked in red. Jaskier turns his head away and tries to breathe slowly. He can only assume whoever it was wanted to escape on Roach and really, that means they would have died either way, if not from the curse then because Geralt would have hunted them down.

"Hey, girl. Hey, it's okay. Calm down," Geralt murmurs, reaching for Roach and stroking her neck. "We're getting out of here now."

He gets Roach ready and Jaskier watches, lets the familiarity of observing Geralt distract him from the dead body. He wants to say something, just to fill the silence—it always makes him feel anxious when it's too quiet. Usually he's quite good at just running his mouth, keeping things light and cheerful. But nothing comes to him.

Geralt meets his eyes when he's done, gaze soft and understanding, before he takes the reins in hand and leads Roach outside. Briefly, as he passes Jaskier, his hand settles on Jaskier's neck, the touch gone as quick as it was there but reassuring nonetheless. 

Things aren't usually like this between them. This kind of touching is something Geralt reserves for when they're intimate, but Jaskier appreciates that he's making an effort right now and hates it at the same time, because he knows Geralt is waiting for him to break down. And maybe he will, later, but right now the fact that Geralt and he, and Roach, are fine is good enough for him and he just wants to get away. 

Outside on the narrow street, Geralt stops and hands Jaskier his cloak. "It's still a bit chilly," he says, and Jaskier takes it with a smile, puts it on under Geralt's watchful gaze.

"Worried I'll do it wrong?" he quibs, unable to stand the silence any longer. His face falls flat, though, the lightness forced… but at least he's trying.

"If anyone could…" Geralt mutters, and Jaskier huffs. Unlike their clothes, the cloak didn't dry completely overnight, the thick fabric still a little damp, but it's better than nothing. The first time Geralt gave it to him, Jaskier complained about wearing something so dark and unflattering, but only because he knew he was expected to. It might not look good on him, enough fabric to swallow him up, but he likes being wrapped up in it nonetheless, likes the way it smells so unmistakably like Geralt, likes that Geralt cares enough to want to keep him warm.

Geralt mounts Roach and then holds out his hand. "Up," he says, and Jaskier huffs again.

"Of course. Whatever you say, mighty witcher," he says, but his tone lacks the usual sarcasm. He pulls himself up onto Roach, settling behind Geralt, trapped between his bulk and their saddlebags. 

It's a short ride out of town. And it's utterly silent, not even the chirping of birds filling the air. It feels like a ghost town. Jaskier supposes, as of last night, it is.

*

Jaskier stretches his legs out in front of him with a small groan, frowning when he notices specks of dried blood on the tan leather of his boots, some smeared along the sides of the soles. His stomach feels queasy and he looks away.

The day has seemed endless. By midday, Jaskier was ready to get off Roach and walk. Despite how much he might complain about his sore feet sometimes, it's usually just to get a reaction from Geralt. He likes walking, it's a good distraction, something that makes the long days pass faster. Spending the entire day on Roach leaves him with nothing to do but think. They kept moving all day, only taking short breaks, an unspoken agreement between them to get away as far from town as possible before setting up camp when the sun was low on the horizon.

The campfire is chasing off any of the evening's chill, popping and sizzling merrily.

"It makes you wonder," Jaskier starts, looking at the orange flames licking up, "what must have happened to a person to want to do something that truly gruesome. Kill an entire village."

Geralt grunts. 

"What they must have done to her for her to do this," Jaskier adds.

"Sometimes people just are that way. Twisted," Geralt says, his tone flat. 

Jaskier sighs. "I suppose, yes," he concedes. "But a lot of times it's other people that twist you, is it not? And she died casting the curse and surely, she must have known that could happen. Yet it must have been worth it to her. It all seems… rather tragic."

Geralt snorts. "You going to write a ballad about it?"

"Maybe," Jaskier says a little testily and finally looks at Geralt. "Have you ever seen anything like that? I've never… well, I have never. Nothing like that."

"There's very little I haven't seen, Jaskier," Geralt says, not unkindly. He looks resigned more than anything else. 

Jaskier gives him a crooked smile, even if Geralt isn't looking at him. "That's not true."

Geralt turns his head then, quirks an eyebrow up and doesn't say anything.

"You've seen a lot of bad. You see mostly bad, really," Jaskier says. "How can you not, given what you do? And that people only seek you out when they need you to kill something but treat you poorly far too often otherwise? But there's so much beauty in the world, too, Geralt. So much _good_."

"Hmm." Geralt turns back towards the fire, the smile on his face looking sad. Bitter.

"I mean it," Jaskier pushes. "There's so much joy to be had. Love and friendship. Music and dancing and good food and sex. And there's the little things. A pretty flower, the first sunshine after a long winter, or summer rain. I suppose most people just don't stop to appreciate these things."

"And you think the good outweighs the bad?" Geralt asks, and he sounds genuinely curious to hear Jaskier's opinion.

"Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't," Jaskier says with a wry quirk of his lips. "I choose to focus on the good anyway. I think it would be quite sad not to."

"And yet, you chose to travel with me," Geralt points out with a small snort. 

Jaskier cocks his head to the side and smiles at Geralt. "I don't see how those two things would contradict themselves, my friend," he replies. At Geralt's doubtful look, he gets up to sit down closer to Geralt's side, close enough that he can feel the heat of his body. 

"There's nothing but death and tragedy on the path I travel," Geralt says harshly, looking at the fire instead of Jaskier. "There's little beauty in that."

"But there's a lot of good," Jaskier says. "I've seen you save people, even after they've insulted you. I've seen you take less coin than you deserve when someone couldn't afford it. You face evil all the time, both human and monster, and yet you get up every morning and keep trying."

Geralt's shoulders slump a little and he looks down, mouth contorted. "I'm not the hero you write about in your songs," he says, sounding resigned. 

"I take some liberties," Jaskier admits. "People don't always want to hear the truth. But that does not make you any less impressive. In fact, I like the real you better if I'm quite honest. And I like that I get to keep that version of you to myself."

"You're a fool," Geralt mutters.

Jaskier smiles and nods. "Perhaps, yes," he agrees. "Tell me, witcher, could you have left town last night?"

It's not something he thought about last night, terrified and hopeless, when Geralt being with him was his only comfort. But he does now, thinking back.

Geralt is silent.

"' _No human soul will leave this town_.' That's what she said, right? But what about a witcher?" Jaskier prods. There's something tight and warm in his chest, elation and sadness curled together. 

"I wouldn't know. I didn't try."

Because Geralt wasn't going to leave him behind. Jaskier wonders if he even really believed the curse wouldn't affect them or if he just took a chance and they both got lucky. He isn't sure how to feel about it—he can't imagine a world without Geralt in it; it would be horribly bleak and a part of Jaskier would rather die alone if it meant Geralt survived. But there's a selfish part that is glad Geralt stayed with him, that doesn't want Geralt to ever be anywhere but at his side.

And Geralt would have done that for him. Would have sacrificed himself so Jaskier wouldn't be alone in his final moments.

Jaskier huffs softly. "Which one of us is the fool again, Geralt?" he asks. 

"Hmm," Geralt hums and finally looks up, his expression guarded.

Jaskier can't resist leaning in and catching Geralt's mouth in a kiss. Before he can draw back, Geralt's hand settles on his nape, dragging him in even closer as he changes the angle, deepens the kiss and Jaskier makes a quiet, pleased noise in the back of his throat.

It's a hard and desperate kiss, but there's no heat the way there usually is. Normally when they kiss, it's with the intent that they'll end up tumbling into bed—or onto their bedrolls—together. This time the desperation feels more more like that of a dying man than of someone looking for a good time, and Jaskier's heart is still too heavy to turn it into anything else. 

When they break apart, Jaskier's lips feel bitten raw and he sucks in a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against Geralt's.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

Geralt grunts and pulls away completely. "Let's get some sleep. We'll get up early and get back on the road."

*

There's something wet and sticky on Jaskier's hand. He squints down at it and bites back a cry when he finds his fingers glistening red. He fumbles to sit up, and he feels it under him then, thick blood covering the ground, seeping out into a huge puddle around him.

"No. No, no, no, no," Jaskier yelps and scrambles to get up, to get away, but he keeps slipping, his clothes becoming stained crimson, soaked through until he can feel it everywhere on his body, in his hair. 

Jaskier screams. 

"Jaskier!"

Jaskier's eyes shoot open. There's a hand on his shoulder, gripping him tight, shaking him, and Jaskier tries to push it off, to get away. 

"Jaskier." The voice is quieter this time, a familiar, deep rumble, and Jaskier sinks back down with a quiet moan, the fight leaving him, the tendrils of fear that were gripping him loosening a little.

Geralt is looking down at him, brows drawn together in concern. "Okay?"

Jaskier nods shakily, his breath ragged, and he settles his hand on top of Geralt's, holds it against himself. It's still dark, but the almost full moon and the fire that hasn't quite died down yet offer some light. They're at their campsite, a day's ride away from the village that is no more, and they're alive, they're safe. 

Geralt's frown doesn't ease and Jaskier offers him a weak smile.

"I'm fine," he says with as much lightness as he can muster. His throat feels raw and painful.

"Hmm." 

Geralt settles back down, but his hand remains on Jaskier. When they went to bed, Jaskier spread his bedroll out right next to Geralt's and Geralt hadn't said a word of protest. They share beds sometimes because it's cheaper, but when they camp they usually only share a bedroll during nights that are so cold it's the only way to get Jaskier's teeth to stop chattering, or when they fall asleep together after sex. 

Jaskier is glad Geralt is there now, a warm, firm line pressed against his side. 

"Go back to sleep," Geralt says quietly. "There's still some time before sunrise."

Jaskier's stomach twists unpleasantly. The dream is still too fresh in his mind, his thoughts still too jumbled; he knows if he went back to sleep now, he'd just slip right back into the nightmare.

He lets go of Geralt's hand and shifts away, slipping out from under his blanket. "I'm parched. I need some water," he says. 

He almost tumbles over his boots as he takes the few steps towards his bag to retrieve his waterskin. It's not until he takes the first sip that he realizes his mouth really is dry and he takes a few more greedy gulps, his head clearing a little.

Geralt watches him quietly as Jaskier returns to his side.

He slides back under his blanket, arranging it around himself and pulling it up high. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Hmm," Geralt hums. He shifts closer to Jaskier, facing him, not touching him but close enough that Jaskier can feel the heat off his body.

They lie quietly side by side for a while. Geralt's breathing is soft and even, and Jaskier thinks he might have gone back to sleep, so he stays perfectly still, not wanting to keep him up as well.

"You're not going back to sleep." 

Jaskier jumps a little at the sound of Geralt's voice and laughs wryly at himself. "Sorry," he mumbles. "You can go to sleep. I don't mean to keep you up."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Geralt offers, the words a little stilted. The fact that Jaskier knows it's the last thing Geralt wants, listening to Jaskier ramble about his feelings in the middle of the night, but suggests it anyway to ease Jaskier's mind is touching. For once though, Jaskier doesn't want to talk, because he wants to forget about his dream rather than relive it.

"That's very sweet of you; I really appreciate the offer, but it's really not necessary," Jaskier replies. "I'm quite alright. You know, I'm simply not very tired—I mean, I didn't even have to walk today, so my body probably doesn't see a need for rest. You don't need to worry about little old me. You can get more sleep. I know how tired you get after a long day of sitting on Roach, doing nothing. It takes a toll on someone your age."

Geralt hums and Jaskier knows he sees right through his attempt at deflection. For all of Geralt's shortcomings when it comes to dealing with people, he's quite perceptive and he's become especially good at reading Jaskier and seeing past his bullshit. Luckily, he lets Jaskier get away with it more often than not anyway, with nothing more than knowing looks and quiet grunts, unless Jaskier takes things too far.

"Perhaps there's something else I can do then," Geralt says. His hand skims over Jaskier's belly as he talks, settles right in the middle, the touch hot through the thin layer of Jaskier's shirt.

"Uh," slips past Jaskier's lips. Geralt leans in and noses his throat, brushes his lips over the sensitive skin at the base of Jaskier's neck. Jaskier is pretty sure Geralt must be able to hear the way his heart flutters quickly in his chest, feel the erratic thump against his mouth.

He tips his head to the side, giving Geralt more space, and moans when he feels a flash of teeth. He brings his hands up, threading them through long hair.

"G—Geralt," he stutters. He feels too warm under the blankets suddenly and he squirms, just to feel pressure against his belly as Geralt gently pins him down. 

Geralt lifts his head and covers Jaskier's mouth with his, kissing him slowly. His fingers tug Jaskier's shirt free from his trousers, slipping underneath. The calluses on his hands are rough, from years of handling swords and holding Roach's reins, and Jaskier shudders at the touch. 

He pushes up into the embrace, slides his mouth more firmly against Geralt's in an attempt to deepen the kiss. 

Geralt draws back, though, ignoring Jaskier when he tries to chase his lips. "Hmm, perhaps I'm too tired for this. I _am_ old, after all," he muses.

Jaskier makes a quiet, frustrated sound. "Geralt," he complains and gives his hair a tug. "We'll talk about the right and wrong times to tease a man later. Come back down here and kiss me."

The last part comes out sounding just _horribly_ needy and Jaskier would be ashamed of himself if he was feeling more like himself and not like he was about to come apart at the seams. Geralt's mouth and hands on him are quietening the madness in his head, easing the tightness in his chest, and Jaskier wants to let himself drown in him. Wants Geralt to make everything else go away.

Geralt ducks down wordlessly and kisses him again. Kisses him just the way Jaskier likes it this time, deep and smooth, licking into Jaskier's mouth and sliding their tongues together and making Jaskier fall apart just like this.

Jaskier makes a noise of appreciation, opens his mouth wider under Geralt's. 

Geralt trails his hand up his body, slides it over his ribs and curves it around Jaskier's chest. He breaks the kiss with a wet sound and shifts down to press hot kisses along Jaskier's jaw. His thumb brushes over Jaskier's nipple, softly at first and then with more intention, and Jaskier moans. Each touch sends little sparks of pleasure through him and his cock is fattening up, arousal pooling low in his belly. 

"Oh, sweet Melitele," Jaskier breathes out. He twists his fingers in Geralt's hair.

"Praying to Gods already?" Geralt murmurs, pressing his mouth to the side of Jaskier's neck. His fingers leave Jaskier's nipple and before he can protest, Geralt reaches down, hands settling over the bulge in his trousers.

"Geralt," Jaskier groans and he feels Geralt smile against his throat.

"Hmm. Better," he says and palms Jaskier, squeezing him gently.

Jaskier groans and squirms to roll onto his side, tugging Geralt's head up and leaning down at the same time so he can place a fervent kiss to his mouth as he presses himself against Geralt. Geralt makes a quiet, surprised noise, but then he kisses Jaskier back and his hand rests on Jaskier's backside, squeezing and dragging him closer. He's hard too, a thick, hard outline Jaskier can feel against himself, and he rolls his hips forward, seeking friction as his fingers find the laces of Geralt's trousers and he tugs at them.

"Please," he murmurs between kisses. 

Geralt catches his wrist and guides his hand away. "Let me," he says and undoes his trousers swiftly. "Get yourself out, too, Jaskier."

Jaskier bites his bottom lip and nods, hastily pushing his trousers down a little and pulling his cock free, his touch making him hiss. He tilts his head down, breath hitching. His own body is blocking the last of the campfire, but the moon is bright enough tonight that he can see just enough. Geralt's cock is hard, straining up, and Geralt gives himself a few slow strokes. His mouth is brushing against Jaskier's hairline, a ghost of a kiss.

"Come here," he says and worms his free hand around Jaskier as he arranges them both so he can easily wrap his hand around both of them. 

"Oh," Jaskier whimpers and Geralt starts stroking them. It feels good, the slight roughness of Geralt's hand, the feeling of Geralt's cock against his, velvety and hot. Precome eases the way a little, makes Geralt's movements smoother, and Jaskier's breathing is all wet and unsteady now, hitching with barely there moans.

Jaskier feels his orgasm build; pleasure curls tightly in his body, spreads hotly through him and the little noises he's making become louder, needier.

"Hmm, let go," Geralt murmurs. His hand tightens around them, his strokes growing faster, and Jaskier bites back a cry. He tips forward, nose pressing against Geralt's throat, and he grabs Geralt's forearm, digging his fingers into thick, firm muscles, feeling them flex.

"Jaskier," Geralt says. The way he says it, his voice all warm and low, sends Jaskier over the edge. He lets out a small cry and bucks his hips forward, and trembles as his orgasm rocks through him. He feels the sticky heat of his release, the way it slicks Geralt's hand as he strokes him through it, and then Geralt joins Jaskier with a deep groan.

*

Jaskier dozes, curled against Geralt, but he doesn't go back to sleep, and though Geralt remains silent, Jaskier knows neither does he. They rise at the first light of day, the sky still murky and the air still chilly. Breakfast is stale bread and cheese that's seen better days.

"We're about three or four days away from Vizima, if the weather holds," Geralt says as they pack up their bedrolls. There's something in his voice, a tightness that gives Jaskier pause.

"Hmm?"

"We could also head for Oxenfurt," Geralt adds and Jaskier watches him closely, the set of his jaw and press of his lips. 

"Do you have business in Oxenfurt?" Jaskier asks.

"No. But if you prefer it to Vizima—" Geralt stops, shrugs his shoulders. Suspicion rises in Jaskier and he straightens.

"Prefer it for what?" he prods. 

Geralt turns away, adjusting the saddlebag on Roach. "You could teach there."

"You mean you want to drop me off at Oxenfurt," Jaskier says harshly and lets out a disbelieving laugh, letting his bedroll fall onto the ground with a thud. "Are you serious, Geralt? How many times have we had this argument? How many times have you tried to get rid of me, to drop me off in some city because you think it would be _better for me_? I'm getting tired of it, quite frankly."

"It would be better," Geralt grits out and turns to him, eyes narrowed. "Dammit, Jaskier. I'm trying to do the right thing."

"You're trying to take the easiest path," Jaskier accuses, glaring right back. "Leaving me behind the moment things get tough. What was last night then, tell me? Was that a goodbye fuck?"

"You think this is easy?" Geralt hisses, taking a few steps towards him before halting. 

Jaskier lifts his chin up. "I think you're a coward," he spits. "I'm old enough to make my own decisions, and I'm choosing to travel with you, the way I have done over and over for _years_. What happened the other night doesn't change that."

He can see Geralt grit his teeth and ignores it, picking his bedroll back up. "We're going to Vizima," he says. "And I'm not staying there."

*

It's not the first time they've traveled in silence, both of them stewing and refusing to talk to the other. Jaskier won't even look at Geralt, turning his head away pointedly whenever Geralt moves into his field of vision. 

He's not surprised by Geralt's suggestion to part ways. It happens often enough, usually after a particularly dangerous job, but Geralt has suggested it less frequently recently. Jaskier had, perhaps, started to hope maybe Geralt had accepted that Jaskier's place was at his side.

They've known each other for years, traveled together more often than not during that time, and Jaskier wonders what it will take for him to finally get through to Geralt. For Geralt to finally accept that Jaskier isn't going to go away.

His anger fades, gone by early afternoon, and it leaves behind a bone-deep weariness and frustration.

It's a long three days to Vizima. They sleep on opposite sides of the campfire and Jaskier doesn't steal Geralt's cloak for another layer of warmth the way he usually would during chilly nights. He eats enough of the prey Geralt catches to keep him going, but not enough to be truly full just because he knows it irks Geralt and by the time they make it to Vizima Jaskier is hungry and tired and his feet are sore.

Geralt gets them a room at an inn and Jaskier is almost petty enough to ask for his own, but he knows they barely have enough coin to cover dinner and perhaps a hot bath as it is. 

It's late already, so they order food and the moment Geralt has finished his he gets up and retreats upstairs without a word, under the curious eyes of the barmaid as she places another ale down in front of Jaskier.

"Thank you," Jaskier says.

She smiles prettily and nods at Jaskier's lute, which he has propped up next to him. "Do you play?"

"Not tonight," Jaskier says with a rueful smile. It wouldn't hurt to make some coin, but Jaskier feels too exhausted to even think about putting on a show. If they stay for another night, he will play tomorrow—will probably have to to pay for their room anyway, unless Geralt finds a contract.

The barmaid nods and cocks her head to the side. "Well, perhaps there is something else you would like tonight?"

Jaskier smiles. "Maybe," he says. 

"I work for a little longer," the barmaid says and smiles. "Enjoy your ale."

Jaskier hums. "Thank you," he says and takes a sip as the barmaid leaves. She's pretty—and yet, Jaskier doesn't feel the usual pull of want. 

Even two ales later, when his belly is warm and his cheeks feel a little flushed, the feeling hasn't come. It's not supple curves he wants to feel in his hands, not the warm full press of a bosom against him. He wants the witcher that is hiding upstairs.

He pays for the ales he's had and smiles apologetically when the barmaid gives him a disappointed look. 

"It's been a long day on the road," he explains with a small incline of his head. "I fear I wouldn't be good company tonight." 

"Perhaps some other time?"

"Perhaps," Jaskier hedges and takes his leave to head upstairs.

Geralt is in bed already, but he's not asleep, golden eyes settling on Jaskier as he enters. Jaskier doesn't say anything, putting his lute down before getting ready for bed. There's only one and Jaskier could spread his bedroll out on the ground, but he's tired of being mad at Geralt.

He joins Geralt in bed silently, slipping under the blankets and fluffing the pillow a little before settling down. Geralt is lying on his back, not moving, and Jaskier huffs a sigh and shifts closer to him, until his knee bumps into Geralt's leg and he places his mouth against Geralt's naked shoulder in a kiss.

"You're a bullheaded oaf, my dear," he says. "But I've decided not to be cross with you any longer." 

"Hmm."

Jaskier kisses Geralt's shoulder again and lifts his hand to rest it on his chest. "It's quite magnanimous of me, but I don't expect a thank you, don't worry."

Geralt huffs, mouth turned down in annoyance.

Jaskier touches his jaw, feels the tense muscles there, and runs a thumb over the corner of Geralt's downturned lips. "I will not let anyone tell me how to live my life, my darling witcher," he sighs. "I didn't stay and become someone I didn't want to be when my family demanded it, and I will not do it for you either because you think it's better for me, I'm afraid."

"My life is dangerous," Geralt grunts. _Too dangerous for a bard_ —Jaskier has heard those words countless times.

"And yet I'm still here," he says. "Danger can lurk anywhere. Even in the smallest of towns. Danger is no reason to hide away from the world in fear and never let yourself really live. If I did that, I would one day look back at my life with nothing but regret at the end of it, whenever that may be. And I think that sounds a pretty wretched way to go out, don't you think?"

Geralt doesn't reply and Jaskier sighs.

"Geralt," he says lightly, smiling a little. "You really think I would be safer if I put down roots somewhere and forgot about you? Please keep in mind that I would sleep with the wrong person sooner or later. Well, more than one wrong person. And I'd be run out of town or worse, and you wouldn't be around to save me. So, really, my chances of survival are much greater at your side."

Geralt's lips twitch a little, and Jaskier grins, pleased.

"You do get into trouble a lot, bard."

"Trouble just finds me naturally. I can't help it."

"You could try," Geralt grumbles, finally turning onto his side. 

Jaskier smiles and he lets his fingers run through Geralt's hair, carding silver-white strands back. "I might be persuaded to do that if you agreed to not try to drop me off in some city like an insolent child every few months."

"Hmmm."

Jaskier leans in, until their noses are almost brushing. "Are we done fighting now?" he asks. "I don't much care for it, you know? And there are much better things you can do with your lips other than frown at me."

Geralt huffs and catches his hand by the wrist. He turns his head and kisses Jaskier's pulse point before giving his arm a tug, pulling Jaskier closer to him while leaning in and bringing their mouths together in a kiss.

*

Geralt finds a contract the next day and he goes to take care of a spectre while Jaskier, for once, is happy to stay behind. He performs a set when the tavern fills up with people during lunchtime, and then another in the evening after he and Geralt share a dinner at the table tucked furthest into the corner. 

When Geralt packs his things the next morning, he does so slowly and Jaskier knows that's his way of giving Jaskier time to wake up properly and gather his own meager belongings. 

They have breakfast and then go to saddle up Roach. Jaskier watches Geralt getting her ready and steps closer when he's done. He moves right into Geralt's space, pressing close and drawing him into a kiss. Geralt catches on a second later, kissing him back.

When they break apart, Geralt raises his eyebrows, a quiet _'What was that for?'_

"Doesn't that just seem like a nice way to start the day?" Jaskier asks, grinning, and Geralt rolls his eyes but there's a small smile on his face.

Jaskier whistles as they come out of the stables and there's a spring in his steps, his mood brighter than it has been in days. The memories of the cursed village are starting to trouble his mind less the farther they get away from it, and he and Geralt are doing better and Jaskier has a feeling things are starting to look up for them.

*

"Nights are still quite cold," Geralt says as they set up camp that evening.

Jaskier, who has just moved to put his bedroll down, stops. He barely catches himself before he can make a comment that will make Geralt huff and probably rescind the implied offer.

"Oh, you're right. Horribly cold," he agrees instead and goes to spread his bedroll out next to Geralt's.

When they settle down for the night, Jaskier with his back to Geralt, facing the fire, Geralt shifts close. For a moment they just lie there like that, quietly, and then Geralt lifts his arm and curls it around Jaskier's waist. Jaskier feels Geralt's lips against his neck, just for a second, and he smiles.

"Good night, Geralt," he murmurs and he gets a quiet, soft hum in return.

*

They head for White Bridge, following a rumor about a werewolf outside of the city. Geralt makes swift work of it and the pay is decent and they stay in town for two days, Jaskier performing in the tavern attached to their inn each night and filling his own leather pouch quite nicely with coin too.

They head for the market the morning they set out again, buying some bread, cheese and jerky for the road and stocking up on Geralt's supplies for potions.

White Bridge's marketplace is bustling that day, children running around and laughing, chatting women standing together in small groups, merchants trying to attract people's attention to their stalls.

Some of the townspeople give Jaskier and Geralt a wide berth, casting furtive glances at Geralt, and Jaskier keeps a cheerful, innocuous smile on his face even though some of the darker looks Geralt gets make him grit his teeth.

Geralt stops at a stall with metalwork, mostly knives, daggers and swords. 

"These look nice," Jaskier says, though he really doesn't know much about what makes a weapon good. But some of the daggers are decorated quite ornately, shining in the sunlight.

"Hmm," Geralt hums and picks up a dagger. He weighs it carefully in his hand and then frowns, putting it down and picking up another one.

"Are you looking for something in particular, witcher?" the merchant asks.

"Perhaps," Geralt says thoughtfully and looks up at Jaskier with a teasing smile. "Something that doesn't just _look nice_."

The merchant laughs and nods, handing a dagger to Geralt. Geralt holds it in his hand, nods.

Then he holds the dagger out to Jaskier, handle first. "What do you think?"

"Me?"

Geralt huffs. "Yes," he says, holding the dagger more pointedly. Jaskier sighs and takes it, twisting his wrist a little to feel it in his hand.

"Geralt, I really don't know anything about daggers," he says a little exasperatedly.

"Does it feel good? Good weight, good size?"

"I suppose," Jaskier says and looks down at it, frowning. "Could be prettier."

Geralt sighs and takes the dagger from Jaskier. He turns to the merchant. "Do you have one of this quality, similar make, but _prettier_?"

The merchant looks amused, but he picks out two daggers, presenting them to Geralt.

"Uh, Geralt?" Jaskier asks. "Are you buying a dagger for me?"

Geralt picks the right one that's being held out to him, the one with the beautifully crafted handle adorned with a blue gem on top, and holds it in his hand the way he did with the other before nodding in approval. "How much for this one?"

"150 crowns."

"100," Geralt replies, giving the merchant an unimpressed look. 

"120," the merchant counters with a small frown, and Geralt nods.

"We'll take it," he says, getting the coins from his leather pouch. Jaskier is pretty sure he's gaping quite unattractively, but he really isn't sure what's going on. Coin isn't a big issue between them—whoever can afford it pays for rooms and food and whatever else is needed. But Geralt never buys Jaskier _gifts_. And it might be a practical gift, but coming from Geralt, that is about as romantic as perfume or jewelry would be from someone else.

"You know I have a dagger, right?" Jaskier asks as they move on from the stall, looking at his new dagger in its leather sheath. "Not that this isn't nice. It's _very_ nice and I appreciate it. A lot."

Geralt grunts. "The dagger you have might be enough to cut some cheese, but it would be useless in a fight. It's nice to look at, but the blade is poorly crafted," he says. "You need something to defend yourself with on the road." 

Jaskier hears the underlying meaning loud and clear. If this is the path he chooses, if he is steadfast to remain at Geralt's side, Geralt wants him to be safe and able to fight. It's Geralt's way of saying he has finally, after _years_ , accepted Jaskier's choice.

"Thank you," Jaskier murmurs. "I will treasure it, Geralt."

"I'd rather you use it," Geralt huffs.

Jaskier laughs. "I will," he says. "Don't fret, dear one. I plan on being your traveling companion for a long time to come."

*

Jaskier leans comfortably against the tree and shifts his lute in his lap, strumming it quietly. He plays around for a little while before picking a melody, a gentle tune he remembers from childhood. The jewel on the hilt of his new dagger, tucked into his boot, glints in the sunlight.

He chances a glance at Geralt, who is cleaning his swords, looking focused and relaxed.

Jaskier grins and switches songs. At the first few notes of _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ , Geralt lifts his gaze and glares.

"Come on, it's a classic, Geralt," Jaskier admonishes. When Geralt narrows his eyes further, he laughs. "Alright. Something else then." 

He pauses for a second before picking a new song, something he's been working on for a few days. It's about Geralt—of course it is. But it's not as obvious as some of his other songs, no mention of witchers or the White Wolf. It's about a man that is unfathomably brave and noble, but mostly it's about Jaskier's admiration, his deep-seated loyalty.

He sneaks a look at Geralt as he sings, softly at first and then a little more confidently when he notices Geralt has stilled. He's staring at the stack of firewood that is not yet lit, not looking at Jaskier, but clearly listening.

Jaskier finishes the song and gives Geralt a small smile when he finally lifts his gaze. 

"What do you think?" he calls out.

Geralt shrugs. "I told you before, that person you sing about, that's not me."

"Who says that was about you?" Jaskier teases. He puts his lute down and gets up, crossing the short distance to where Geralt is sitting. Putting his hands on Geralt's shoulders, he sits down on his lap with a grin, straddling him. Geralt takes him by the hips, steadying him.

"With this song?" Jaskier says. "There are no embellishments, no lies, Geralt. Just you."

Geralt looks at him, expression somber yet soft, and then nods once. "Hmm. That's how you see me?"

"Yes," Jaskier says and cocks his head, smiling. "And bards are very perceptive. Observing is part of our job, so we can tell stories about the things we see."

"You're also the best liar I know, Jaskier," Geralt grumbles, tone fond.

Jaskier smiles widely. "Thank you, that's very sweet of you to say," he replies and tips his head forward, resting his forehead against Geralt's. "But there are some things I don't lie about."

Geralt tilts his head to the side and kisses Jaskier.

"It's not the worst song you've ever come up with," he says begrudgingly.

"Aww, look, that was almost a compliment. You're getting better," Jaskier teases and leans in for another short kiss. "I think good behavior should be rewarded, should it not?"

"Hmm," Geralt hums and tugs him closer on his lap. 

*

Spring is in full bloom a few short weeks later. The nights get warmer, but Jaskier keeps putting his bedroll down next to Geralt's and neither of them bother with excuses anymore. 

The weather makes traveling a lot easier. There's more to hunt and eat in the wild, a quick bath in a stream or river isn't torture, and Jaskier finds it much more pleasant to walk past flowers and newly green trees. 

And when Geralt ends up getting drenched in monster guts and blood, they can wash the worst of it out and lay the clothes down to dry properly before getting back on the road the next morning.

"There," Jaskier says, wringing out Geralt's shirt and spreading it out on a sun-warmed rock. "That'll do."

Geralt hums and runs his fingers through his wet hair. He's washed the worst of it off and he's as clean as he's going to get without a full bath—which is to say not very, but clean enough that Jaskier won't mind being close to him. 

"How about you tell me all about the cockatrice and I help you get those tangles out of your hair?" 

"My hair is fine," Geralt mutters and heads back towards their bags.

"Geralt, dear, you look like something nested in your hair and then you doused it in water and left it at that," Jaskier says, hurrying after him. "Sit, let me take care of you, and tell me all about the evil, nasty bird… _thing_."

Geralt looks at him unimpressed.

"Come on," Jaskier wheeled. "I'm holding up my end of the deal and staying out of trouble. I deserve this."

"You call this staying out of trouble?" Geralt asks and taps his finger against the fading bruise on Jaskier's jaw where he got punched in the last tavern they stayed in a few days ago.

"That was hardly my fault," Jaskier argues. "I didn't start the bar fight. I had nothing to do with the brawl."

"No, but you wanted to stay and watch because you thought it was thrilling," Geralt says. 

"A man needs a little adventure. You hardly let me join you on yours," Jaskier replies. "Maybe if you at least shared more details, I would be less inclined to watch bar fights to be entertained." 

"I don't provide enough entertainment now, bard?" Geralt says in a low voice.

Jaskier gives Geralt a look. "Don't try to distract me," he says. "I'll get the comb, you sit and talk."

He pushes Geralt towards a log, making shooing motions before retrieving the comb and joining him. 

He stands behind Geralt, pulling Geralt's hair back gently and smoothing it out. He starts working from the bottom, combing out the tangles.

Geralt doesn't start talking right away, but Jaskier knows sooner or later he will share some details. He's been in an agreeable mood lately. But until he does, Jaskier decides to fill the silence himself.

"You do provide plenty of entertainment, by the way," he starts, and Geralt hums. Jaskier can hear the smile in the sound without having to see it. "And I'm not just talking about sex, though I'm forever grateful for you and your witchery stamina. But I'm just as content sitting next to you in a tavern, having an ale or two, or walking down a dusty path at your side. The smelly swamps I could do without, but what can you do, right?"

"Wasn't I supposed to be the one talking?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier huffs. "Well, you weren't, were you?" he counters. "And I just wanted to make sure you know."

"Hmm," Geralt replies and then, quietly, adds, "I know."

*

They make it to a town a few days later. It's not huge, but it seems very lively, people bustling about as Jaskier and Geralt walk down the cobblestoned main road, Geralt leading Roach. 

Several women are carrying flowers and when they reach the small town square it dawns on Jaskier what is going on. There's a tall pole with flowers and ribbons at the top and several lads are stacking large branches in a pile in the middle of the square, preparing a bonfire, while others are carrying tables and benches out of a tavern.

"It's Belletyn," Jaskier exclaims and turns to Geralt with a wide smile. "We're staying in town even if they don't have a contract for you, right? I'm sure they'll be happy to let me perform."

"Can I talk you out of it?"

"No," Jaskier replies with a small laugh and touches Geralt's arm. "Come on, Geralt, turn that perpetual frown of yours upside down. Remember what I told you recently, about all the beautiful things in the world? Singing, dancing, drinking. We're going to get all of that tonight. I know you'll _at least_ enjoy the drinking part."

"Fine," Geralt grumbles.

They find an inn. A stable boy takes Roach from them to get her settled, promising her the best treatment when Geralt presses a coin into his hand. They head inside and Jaskier saunters up to the small bar with a cheerful smile. 

"Good afternoon, my lady. What a beautiful, sunny day, isn't it?" he asks, leaning against the counter. "My lovely companion and I would like a room for the night." 

The innkeeper glances at Geralt and then back to Jaskier, her eyebrows raised, but doesn't comment. Jaskier keeps his smile wide, but it's definitely less sincere, as he pays and gets the key.

"She didn't have to look at you like that," Jaskier grumbles as they head upstairs.

Geralt grunts. "I think that was less about me and more about you asking for a room for you and your _lovely companion_."

"Oh, she needs to get off it. Calling you my companion is harmless and you _are_ lovely, my dear. And there's nothing wrong with two men sharing a bed, platonic or not, anyway. That can hardly be the first time that has happened here." 

"Hmm, yes, I'm sure they have lots of loud-mouthed bards in foppy clothes coming in, implying they're fucking the witcher that's accompanying them," Geralt snarks. They reach the last room down the hall and Geralt opens the door.

"Does it bother you?" Jaskier asks and he doesn't like how the thought makes his heart twist a little. He's used to being someone's secret and while he's always found that quite thrilling with other people, it's different with Geralt. "I wasn't aware I shouldn't imply…"

"I don't care what people think about me," Geralt replies gruffly.

Jaskier sighs. "Oh yes, right. You have no emotions and you're not hurt when people insult you or belittle you," he says and sets his lute down, before turning to Geralt. "I'm serious, Geralt. If it's something that bothers you, I won't do it again."

Geralt steps closer and takes Jaskier's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping it up. He's still wearing his leather gloves and the feeling of them against his skin, smooth and warm from Geralt's hands, makes Jaskier's heart thud in his chest.

"I don't care," Geralt repeats, golden eyes holding Jaskier's gaze. "Maybe don't call me _lovely_ again."

Jaskier's lips twitch up into a smile, but he rolls his eyes dramatically anyway. "Fine. Even if it positively _pains_ me to do that."

"Hmm."

"What words am I allowed to use? Beautiful? Ravishing? Comely?"

"Shut up, Jaskier," Geralt murmurs and covers Jaskier's mouth with his.

"Exquisite," Jaskier mumbles against his lips, wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck.

*

Jaskier lowers his lute and bows, smiling so wide his cheeks ache. There's some cheering, but the locals Jaskier has been playing with are already starting in on the next song and people continue dancing merrily. 

Jaskier feels flushed, cheeks warm and damp strands of hair falling into his face. He's missed this. Playing in taverns is good fun, it's what he earns coin with most days, but there's nothing like gatherings like this, the carefree, merry atmosphere, the dancing and singing and laughing when a whole town comes together to celebrate.

Jaskier brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks around, eyes finding Geralt within moments. He's sitting on a bench, back turned to the table behind him, a tankard in his hand as he observes the festivities. To anyone else, he might look dark and brooding, but Jaskier can see the way his shoulders are loose and his face relaxed. 

Smiling even wider, Jaskier saunters over. Geralt watches him come closer, holding himself completely still, his lips turned up just the littlest bit.

"I see nobody has persuaded you to dance yet," Jaskier says as he plops down next to Geralt with flourish, propping his lute up against the bench.

"I don't dance," Geralt replies stoically. 

"Oh please." Jaskier waves him off before stealing the tankard from Geralt's lax fingers. "Everyone dances, darling. You just haven't had enough wine yet."

"Hmm, that makes one of us." 

Jaskier grins behind the tankard as he takes a few gulps. "I've been working hard to entertain these people," he says and hands the wine back to Geralt. 

"I saw that." 

Jaskier turns his body towards Geralt and wraps his hands around his bicep, resting his cheek against Geralt's shoulder. "Were you watching me?"

"Had to make sure you didn't do anything foolish," Geralt replies, giving him an amused look.

"I'm on my best behavior tonight," Jaskier promises and turns his head, letting his mouth brush against the fabric of his dark shirt. He's not wearing armor tonight, his swords left behind in their room at the inn too, though Jaskier knows he has several daggers tucked away on his body just in case.

"You're drunk," Geralt murmurs.

"Eh, tipsy, maybe," Jaskier replies and lifts his head a little, placing his chin on the curve of Geralt's shoulder. "Mostly just happy. It's been a lot of fun, hasn't it?"

Geralt hums, not quite agreement but not denial either, and Jaskier squeezes his arm. He knows Geralt doesn't particularly enjoy these kind of things, feels like he doesn't fit, doesn't belong, but he's been trying tonight. He's had food and wine and been _mellow_ , enough so that Jaskier has seen people approach him, stopping to chat. He's still gotten looks, of course he has—and Jaskier suspects they are getting them right now too, though he doesn't bother looking around to check. He has someone much more important to focus on. 

"Let's go back to the inn," he suggests in a murmur, dropping another kiss to Geralt's shoulder. He knows he's acting a little too clingy, too affectionate, but the wine has made him all loose and relaxed and he can't help it. Not touching Geralt is a test of his restraint on the best of days, and it's been getting harder and harder, and right now it seems like an impossible task. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and heat pools in Jaskier's belly. He licks his lips as Geralt turns to put the tankard down on the table behind him and then he gets up and drags Jaskier up with him, and Jaskier laughs.

"Eager, huh?" he asks, and Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier lets go of him with one hand to pick up his lute while his other hand slips down to Geralt's forearm. He presses himself close to Geralt as they leave the town square, heading in the direction of the inn.

They don't make it very far before Geralt suddenly pulls him into a narrow alley.

"Geralt, what—" Jaskier starts, but then Geralt pulls him to him and kisses him. Jaskier makes a surprised noise, muffled by Geralt's lips, and it takes him a moment or two to catch up and then he kisses Geralt back. 

Geralt's hands are on him too, one on Jaskier's nape, thumb pressed against the line of his jaw, angling his face. The other settles on the small of Jaskier's back, holding him close. Jaskier wraps his own arms around Geralt's waist, carefully clutching his lute.

"Am I that irresistible that you couldn't wait until we make it to our room?" Jaskier teases when they part, his voice a little breathless.

Geralt hums and leans in for another kiss, and Jaskier laughs into it, feeling light and happy and wonderful, being held by Geralt like this, being kissed like this.

Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss and when Geralt tries to lean in for another, he turns his face with a grin and Geralt's mouth brushes his cheeks again.

"As nice as this is, we're not having sex in an alley, Geralt," Jaskier admonishes playfully. "I'll only get my clothes dirty. Or my lute! You couldn't have found a nicer alley at least, could you? I don't know if you've noticed, but this place doesn't smell great."

He tips his head back to look at Geralt, and maybe it's that he can barely make him out in the dark, but Jaskier thinks instead of finding the lust and need he expected, Geralt looks _fond_.

"You've clearly had too much wine as well, my dear," Jaskier teases. 

"You shouldn't put your hands all over me and not expect me to do anything about it," Geralt replies.

"Oh, it's that easy? I'll remember that," Jaskier replies cheekily and finally untangles himself from Geralt's arms. "Come on. We have a nice cozy room with a big bed waiting for us, Geralt."

Geralt hums in agreement and follows Jaskier, their arms brushing together as they walk side by side.

*

Back in their room, Jaskier puts his lute away and strips out of his doublet and boots, while Geralt locks the door and lights some candles in the room.

Jaskier goes to open the window, sighing happily when the muffled noise from the town square filters in, music and laughter and the hum of chatter.

He turns to Geralt, smiling, and his heart stutters in his chest when Geralt smiles back. He comes to stand in front of Jaskier and he brings his hand up, touching something above Jaskier's ear. It's only then that Jaskier remembers the flower a girl tucked behind his ear earlier tonight and he realizes it must have been there the entire time.

He laughs. "I forgot about that," he admits and takes out the flower. It's a pink forget-me-not and the small cluster of blooms look delicate and pretty. Feeling brave and wanting to see just how far Geralt is willing to indulge him tonight, Jaskier tucks the flower behind Geralt's ear.

"Jaskier," Geralt says, a bit exasperated, but he doesn't reach up to get rid of the flower.

Jaskier grins and hums and Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier's waist, pulling him in.

"You're a menace," Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier rests his head on Geralt's shoulder. The wine is making him feel warm and just a little dizzy.

He hums quietly under his breath, not the melody that is filtering in through the open windows, but something he played earlier. It's a slow, beautiful ballad in Elder Speech. He remembers the melody from his childhood, something he thinks maybe his mother must have sung to him, and heard it years later again in Oxenfurt where he learned to sing it.

Geralt is quiet and Jaskier thinks he saw him listen earlier, too, when he sang the song. He brushes his lips against Geralt's neck and then starts singing a few lines, just snippets of the song between humming the melody. He moves gently in Geralt's arm, swaying a little, and Geralt shifts with him.

"What are you doing?"

"Dancing," Jaskier replies. "See? I told you you can dance."

Geralt grunts and then he moves, bends down, and suddenly Jaskier is being hoisted up into the air.

"Geralt," he yelps and laughs when Geralt takes a few steps and drops him down onto the bed. 

Geralt curves his hands around his knees and nudges his legs apart as he kneels between them, leaning over him. "This is what you had in mind when you wanted to come back here, isn't it?"

"Hmmm, yes," Jaskier replies and pulls Geralt down by the shoulders to kiss him.

It starts out slow, but it doesn't stay that way for long. Kisses become needier, sloppier as hands tug on clothes, bodies rocking together, fingers clutching and tangling in hair. 

There's a vial of oil on the small nightstand, which Jaskier put there earlier as he tends to do these days when they stay at an inn, and he moans wantonly when Geralt grabs it, just the thought of Geralt's fingers inside of him making him ache. 

Geralt kisses his mouth, his cheek, his jaw as he slips slick fingers between Jaskier's cheeks. He circles his hole before slowly pressing in with one finger, and Jaskier bites his lower lip around a whimper. Geralt's fingers are thick and long and he works Jaskier open patiently, makes sure he is loose and slippery with oil, fingers seeking to make Jaskier feel good to distract from the initial burn. 

Before long he has Jaskier rocking down needily on three fingers, moans and whimpers muffled only by kisses.

"I'm ready. Oh fuck, darling, I'm ready," Jaskier groans and when Geralt grunts in reply and pulls his fingers out, Jaskier gives his shoulders a push.

"I want to ride you," he says breathlessly.

"Fuck, Jask. _Yes_ ," Geralt groans. He rolls over, pulling Jaskier with him onto his lap, and Jaskier laughs, feeling feverish. He grabs the vial Geralt dropped earlier and frees the stopper, pouring some oil into his palm. It smells faintly sweet and he's pretty sure he must have grabbed one of the expensive, perfumed oils he uses for baths by accident.

He doesn't even care right now. Neither does he care that the window is still wide open and anyone walking by will be able to hear them. All that matters is Geralt and how desperately Jaskier wants him inside of him and how terribly in love he is with him.

He shifts back and curls his hand around Geralt's cock, spreading the oil over him, and Geralt grunts and hitches his hips. Jaskier grins and tightens his hand a little. "Feels good, dear?"

"Fucking get on me already, Jaskier," Geralt groans, eyes half-lidded.

Jaskier snickers and lifts up, the sound dying on his lips as he positions himself and lowers himself down. The blunt pressure against his hole makes him tense up naturally, and Jaskier takes a breath and pushes past his body's instincts. He keens lowly when the head of Geralt's cock breaches him, but he doesn't stop, rocking up and down, taking Geralt in bit by bit until he's sitting on Geralt's lap.

Geralt is gripping his thighs, breathing harshly, and he gives himself a moment to relax, to just _feel_. Geralt is thick and long, stretching him wide, and Jaskier loves the initial burn as his body adjusts. 

Placing his hands on Geralt's chest, he pushes up a little and sinks back down, moaning at the drag of Geralt's cock inside of him, the way it makes pleasure spark through him. He repeats the movement, adjusting the angle a little and they both groan this time.

"You feel so good," Jaskier murmurs, stealing a kiss before he shifts to sit up straighter and starts moving again.

Geralt's eyes are a dark amber in the dim light of the candles, never leaving Jaskier as he arches up into him and Jaskier works himself up and down, small grunts and groans and _fuck, Jaskier_ slipping from Geralt's lips and mingling with Jaskier's softer moans and gasps. Geralt's fingers are digging bruises into Jaskier's thighs and Jaskier feels wild and amazing and powerful, with his witcher sprawled out under him like this. 

"Jaskier," Geralt finally rasps, sounding absolutely wrecked, and then he suddenly lifts Jaskier up and flips them over. He grabs Jaskier's legs, pushing them up and apart, and then he sinks right back into Jaskier.

"Oh fuck, Geralt," Jaskier moans, and Geralt grunts in reply. He fucks into Jaskier deep and hard, and Jaskier tangles his fingers in the sheets and wraps his legs around Geralt and cries out, pleasure sparking down his spine as each thrust hits that spot inside of him perfectly.

"Geralt, _Geralt_ ," he repeats, almost _chants_ , and he feels dizzy and desperate, arching up.

"Let go. Come for me," Geralt murmurs. "Jaskier."

The sound of his name rolls off Geralt's tongue smoothly, fondly, and the coil of heat in Jaskier's belly tightens, spreads, and he comes with a stuttered mewl, pleasure making his vision go black and fuzzy for a few moments. 

Geralt grunts, rocking into him slower now, each thrust shallow and deep, and Jaskier grasps him, fingers fumbling to grab, to hold, as it sends spark after spark through him until he feels shattered and boneless. 

Geralt lets out a final, deep noise and freezes, and Jaskier moans as he feels him spill his seed inside of him.

Jaskier sighs when Geralt sinks down on top of him, still buried inside of him, his weight hot and heavy. He strokes a hand down Geralt's back, slick with sweat, and runs the other through his hair, fingers tangling in silky strands. 

"Gods. That was good, my dear," he mumbles and Geralt makes a noise in reply and turns his head, kissing the side of Jaskier's neck.

*

Jaskier blinks his eyes open slowly, freeing one hand from the tangle of sheets and limbs to rub the sleep out of them. He lifts his head a little to look out the window past the bulk of Geralt's body, groaning when he sees the sun shining in, the sky bright blue.

It must be midday already, but they hadn't gone to sleep until the sky was turning a murky blue outside, the music and laughter long having ceased. Jaskier's whole body is aching, reminding him of just how long, how amazing the night had been.

He drops his head again and snuggles closer against Geralt. His eyes slide shut again as he presses a sleepy kiss to Geralt's chest, tucking his head under his chin.

Geralt's hand settles on Jaskier's nape and then sweeps down his spine slowly.

"Good morning," Jaskier mumbles.

"Morning has come and gone," Geralt replies, shifting a little and curling his arm around him.

Jaskier tips his head back, eyes remaining closed, and smiles when he gets the kiss he was hoping for. He hums and lazily rubs himself against Geralt.

Geralt pulls back and snorts. "You can't want more already." 

"Hmm, no, I'm much too sore for this," Jaskier mumbles, opening his eyes to slits as he yawns.

He feels Geralt go tense, quick and sudden. "I hurt you."

Jaskier cracks his eyes open fully at his tone and cups Geralt's neck as he meets his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, of course not," he says and grins slyly. "Though I do fear you will have to make do with my hand and mouth for a day or two."

He doesn't miss the way Geralt's eyes drop to his mouth briefly, and it makes heat tug at his belly. He leans in and presses a short kiss to Geralt's lips.

"And I need a bath before I will be able to leave this room today," he adds and grimaces as he shifts a little. "Gods, do I need a bath."

"I offered to get a rag and water last night," Geralt reminds him.

Jaskier distantly remembers that, as well as wrapping himself around Geralt and clinging to him to get him to stay. He feels himself flush and hopes against hope Geralt doesn't notice. "Well. You don't fuck a man stupid and then attempt to leave his bed," he replies flippantly.

Geralt hums, sounding amused.

"Be that as it may," Jaskier says and rolls onto his back, stretching, "I probably look a right mess right now."

"You look fine," Geralt replies, tone a little exasperated.

"Fine, he says! Fine," Jaskier exclaims. "How did you ever manage to seduce anyone, huh?"

"I usually pay for sex," Geralt replies with a smirk.

"Well, I have no interest in your coin, so you will have to do better with me, darling," Jaskier replies.

Geralt looks at him, eyebrows quirked as his eyes travel down Jaskier's body, the blankets only covering him to mid-waist. "Do I?"

"You know, a lesser man might be insulted if you insinuate that they're easy," Jaskier says primly. "Lucky for you, I take that as a compliment, because I think giving your love freely is a beautiful thing."

"Hmm." 

Jaskier grins and brings a hand up to run it down his face. There's something sticking to his cheek and he peels it away, squinting at the small, pink petal. Seeing it makes him remember the flower he had tucked behind Geralt's ear last night, and he props himself up on one elbow and he laughs when he sees a few more petals and a piece of the green stem on the pillow.

He lets himself fall back down onto it, uncaring about the pieces of flower under his head, and turns to grin at Geralt. "Thank you."

"What for?" Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Jaskier scoots a little closer and curves his hand around Geralt's jaw, kissing him quickly, softly. "For indulging me," he says. "I know these kind of festivities aren't your favorite thing. But I'm really happy that you came with me."

"It wasn't all bad," Geralt admits, and Jaskier smiles, kissing him again.

"Well, if there's ever anything you would like to do. Some kind of witcher tradition or something like that," Jaskier says. "I'm happy to do it with you. Unless it's something that could kill me."

"No killing you," Geralt promises.

"Oh, good," Jaskier says with a grin. "Because I am a much better companion if I am alive."

*

They leave the town early next morning, the sun still low on the horizon. They haven't made it far when Geralt slows his steps down.

"Kaer Morhen," he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Hmm, what?" Jaskier asks.

"It's not a witcher tradition or a celebration," Geralt says. "But perhaps next winter you could come back to Kaer Morhen with me."

Jaskier's steps falter but he catches himself, something warm and soft spreading in his chest. He reaches for Geralt, wraps his hand around his forearm. "Of course," he says. "I would very much like that, Geralt."

**Author's Note:**

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